“Our cheeks are hollow, beards long and our clothes thick with mud.” — Henri Desagneaux
I don't usually write poetry, but after seeing a segment on Verdun (probably on the History Channel) I decided to give it a shot:
The “Great Battle” of a Great War, Fought in
a little, pretty place.
Where Somme ghosts Beckoned, And von Falkenhayn Promised, “Weissbluten!” Were it not for Pétain, Nivelle & Mangin.
21 Feb. The journey begins, No hint of its Marathon end; And in-between 700,000 wounded, missing or dead.
Phosgene gas In poison pen shells “Fired!” from 10 score & 30 guns; Ten times ten, yet thrice again; But not a new result. Finally, The Battle Breaks And all had been Undone; Would anyone recall this fight Historians dubbed